


A Facade of Durability

by EverythingWrong



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Choking, Cigarettes, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extortion, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Explicit Sex, Other, POV First Person, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, main character could be read as female or male whatever floats your boat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21970426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythingWrong/pseuds/EverythingWrong
Summary: “Good evening, mister.” I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the window.“Evening,” he replies, an obvious, stupid smile behind his words. I feel him rub my arm with huge, clumsy hands, burning hot against my skin, “Long night, sweetheart?” he asks casually, a low purr in his voice.“Mmm…” I nod in agreement.He chuckles softly, returning his hand to the steering wheel, “You got a name?”I open my eyes, glancing over at the disheveled man sitting in the driver’s seat quickly before looking away again, “No…”
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 2





	A Facade of Durability

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags, let me know if I've missed any.

I must be freezing.

It’s been what feels like hours since I first came out here and even then, the air had felt like ice on my warm skin. It only got colder. The freezing rain pelts me, cutting through the thin fabric of my coat like a knife, and chills me to the bone. I rub my hands together, if not to warm myself then just to feel that they’re still there. I turn slightly and stare down the dreary cobblestone road. It would be completely pitch black if not for the dim, yellow halo of the flickering street lamp overhead. Stealing a quick glance to my right, I catch a glimpse of _ him  _ standing, shielded from the wind and sleet by the all-encompassing darkness of the canopy above him. Nobody in their right mind would be out and about tonight, but I still avoid looking directly at him; trying to make myself appear small and inconspicuous. Like I don’t even exist. 

The street light flickers desperately before dying as a navy blue pickup truck pulls up in front of the building, rolling down its window as  _ he _ steps out to meet the driver. He greets the stranger like an old friend, but I’m sure they haven’t known each other longer than a few hours. I look away, staring off at nothing in particular until my gaze falls on my own faint image reflected in the window of the vacant cafe across the street. Despite the chilling rain dripping into my eyes, I can still make out my stoic, solemn face. God, I look like a drowned rat. My sopping wet hair is clinging to my neck, my skin turned chalk white from the ice cold wind and my clothes weighed down with an impossible amount of rainwater. I think maybe ‘drowned rat’ is too generous a comparison for my muss.

Maybe it’s the lingering effects of the alcohol I’d been drinking earlier leaving me dazed, but I don’t hear him calling me the first time. It isn’t until I feel a sharp tug on my arm that I look up, startled by the suddenness of the action, “What..?” I stammer.

_ He _ pulls me towards the truck with an iron grip on my forearm and sloppily shoves a fistful of bills into his coat pocket. “Get in,” he says gruffly, his hard, worn face briefly illuminated by the bright orangish glow of the cigarette pressed between his cracked lips. He’s not one who likes to be kept waiting.

“... Yes, sir.” I nod curtly, glancing over at the vehicle. The guy inside looks at least forty, a bit chubby, with receding reddish brown hair. He’s got the appearance of any other sleazy guy you’d come across in this end of town. Without further hesitation, I turn away, before  _ he  _ can get impatient, and walk around the front of the client’s truck. My boots make disgusting squelching sounds as what feels like a gallon of ice cold rainwater gets squished out of my soles with every step; I hope this scuzzbag doesn’t have a thing for feet. I open the door and climb into the faux leather seat, briefly mumbling some kind of apology for getting water everywhere, but the man doesn’t really respond. He just looks over with a slight grin and puts the truck in drive.

The interior of the truck is worse for wear. The backseat is flooded with an aimless combination of rusty power tools, discarded fast food containers, and broken pieces of a CD. Amidst the mess sits a dusty stereo that doesn’t look like it’s been touched, much less used, since 1980  _ at least _ . Loose change and cigarette butts lay scattered at my feet along with two or three empty bottles of Guinness. Everything from the glove box to the heater seems to be damaged in one way or another.

As we start moving down the dimly lit road, I settle myself against the seat and slip off my boots and socks. I pull my legs up and rub my palms against my feet in a useless attempt to bring feeling back into my toes. He looks over briefly every few seconds, I notice, dissecting me with beady brown eyes. “Good evening, mister.” I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the window.

“Evening,” he replies, an obvious, stupid smile behind his words. I feel him rub my arm with huge, clumsy hands, burning hot against my skin, “Long night, sweetheart?” he asks casually, a low purr in his voice.

“Mmm…” I nod in agreement.

He chuckles softly, returning his hand to the steering wheel, “You got a name?”

I open my eyes, glancing over at the disheveled man sitting in the driver’s seat quickly before looking away again, “No…” I shake my head.

He sounds surprised, “No…?” He watches me nod my head slightly before continuing to speak, laughing quietly as if unsure whether or not it was meant as a joke, “Odd one... Well, tell me what I should call you, then?”

I lick my dry lips and sit upright, looking at him with what I hoped would appear as a coy, promiscuous smile, “Whatever you want to, baby…” My voice sounded bitter and flat when it reached my ears, but he didn’t take notice and seemed overly pleased to be given a mildly flirtatious response. I prop myself up on the window once more and stare out into the rain, watching other cars speed by, totally oblivious. Eventually I find myself fixated on my own reflection. Locking eyes with myself, I see only my own vacant expression staring back at me.

It doesn’t take long before the truck stops, parked in the mostly empty lot of a cheap, rundown motel somewhere on the edge of town. The blinking neon sign out front reads ‘Around the World: Hotel and Lodging’. The client opens the driver’s side door and steps down into the rain, pulling a worn, black umbrella out from the cluttered backseat. “Here we are, Darling, come on out,” he says, grinning obtusely, and slams the car door.

_ ‘Here we are indeed…’ _ I pause to look up at the dim building before I slip my barely dry feet back into my wet boots and step back out into the rain. It hits me hard and sends a chill down my spine that makes me quiver despite myself. I don’t think I remembered it being so chilly. Walking quickly, I follow him up the stairs to a green painted door directly above the parked truck with the number 43 painted on in black ink. Apart from the heavy sound of rain hitting the asphalt, it was silent. No blaring music, no skidding tires, just quiet. I can’t help but appreciate the momentary calmness. He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the door before disappearing into the darkness. I don’t realize how cold I was until I make it inside the warm and dry, albeit musty, room. I can see my frail, shaking figure in the mirror across from me with death white face and purple turned lips. I rub my hands together as I remove my soaked jacket, the numbness fading into an agonizing coldness that leaves me shivering.

I’m startled when he places his large hands on my shoulders and starts rubbing circles along my shoulder blades. “You’re absolutely freezing,” he murmurs in a deep, husky voice that makes the hair on my neck stand on end. 

I want to pull away and get it over with, but my frozen skin craves the heat this man’s huge, coarse hands provide. I hum softly, slipping off my sodden boots, and stand there like an idiot: dripping water onto the dirty carpeted floor and soaking up warmth from this giant’s hands. I only relax my shoulders a little when he suddenly kisses the nape of my neck. I jerk, surprised, and look back at him, “Let me get undressed first- I wouldn’t want to get your clothes all wet,” I lie.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and watches. I don’t really care if he does: he paid good money, he can see whatever he wants. He doesn’t say anything as I remove my shorts or my shirt or my socks. It isn’t until I start to take off my undergarments that he reaches out and runs a hand down my side, feeling my ribs and stomach. He shakes his head when I pause, “Don’t stop just yet...” he says softly, pulling me into his lap. His burly arms wrap around my waist and he begins rubbing his fingers along my spine, “I’ll warm you up if that’s okay with you, Sweetheart.”

My face feels hot. I give a slight nod before I can feel him begin kissing my neck, sucking on the tender skin and leaving light red and pinkish spots behind. We shift and my back is pressed against the scratchy sheets which are probably still stained from years of similar carnal acts.

He’s much more gentle than I expected he’d be. There’s no hair pulling or biting or hands yanking my head back until only strangled sounds leave my throat. I feel his laboured breath, hot on my neck, as he leaves a number of purplish imperfections along my collarbones and shoulders. The lingering cold from being outside intensifies all sensual feelings I’m assaulted with. It feels like a fire is burning in my stomach, searing my skin and melting the ice that envelopes the rest of my body. I wrap my arms around his neck, face buried in his shirt, so I won’t have to worry about what sort of expression is on my face. He holds me firmly in thick, robust arms as he kisses my neck again. His beard stubble brushes, soft and scratchy, against my sensitive skin. Kissing, marking, maybe he’s just a lonely bloke after all. For a moment, I completely melt, soaking up every bit of what could almost be mistaken for genuine affection. Almost.

It’s over before too long and I’m left cold once more. He tosses the condom into the waste bin and sits back, lighting a cigarette. The illusion of intimacy fades away and leaves me with the blunt truth of how meaningless every touch had been. I roll over, pulling the blanket over my lower half, and lay on my stomach to catch my breath. I rub my feet together in an attempt to warm up my toes. I can feel his strong hand rest on my back, heat still radiating through his palms. I watch my dull expression reflected in the mirror and drowsily let my eyelids fall a little. The room all around me smells like an overpowering mix of bad decisions and sex, but it’s so… warm. I’m so tired. It wouldn’t be that bad if I just closed my eyes for a minute, would it..?

“Let’s get going, Sweetheart!”

I jerk awake, taken aback by a sudden slap on my ass. I rub my eyes and raise my head drowsily, “Yeah…” The alarm clock on the nightstand shows just after two in the morning; I couldn’t have been asleep much longer than twenty minutes. I sit up, yawning, and begrudgingly began putting my cold, damp clothes back on. I don’t really pay the client much mind as he puts his coat on, taking a puff from his cigarette, until he extends his arm and holds the box out towards me, “You want one, Sweetie?” My throat tightens slightly.  _ No, I don’t smoke. _ I look down at the offering, the pungent smell of tobacco hitting my nose.

_ No. I don’t smoke. _

I reach out and pull a blunt from the box.

_ I said, I don’t smoke.  _

He lights it, a vague grin on his face. __

_ Stop it _ .

I bring it towards my face.

_ Don’t do it. _

I put it between my lips.

_ You promised. _

I inhale a thick cloud of sour-tasting smoke, despite my better judgement, “Thank you.” I can feel the guilt weighing on my back, but I keep breathing in the poison, letting it’s anodynic effect soothe my pain. It soothes my brain, making me feel a whole new sense of drowsiness. I follow him back out to the car, cradling my hands protectively over the tiny, warm ember. Rain pelts my face and hands, but it can’t drown my little flame. My ambrosia. I climb back into the passenger seat and sit against the door, silently. I don’t answer him when he speaks anymore, too tired to smile and flirt any longer. I just stare off with hollow eyes, hot cinders falling into my lap. With each breath I take, I feel more and more numb. The city flashes by in a blur of lights and cold, empty buildings. He stops trying to speak to me after a while and instead opts to lay his monstrously huge hand on my leg. After what feels like only moments, the truck comes to a halt, familiar faded bricks and cloudy windows greeting my eyes.

The client puts his cigarette butt into the ashtray and unlocks the door, “Hey, wake up. You’re home, Sweetheart.” He pats my knee gently, a slight chuckle in his husky voice as he squeezes my thigh one last time.

I uncurl myself and pull my jacket tighter around my frail shoulders as I grip the door handle. “Thank you…” I say listlessly, opening the door. Regrettably, the rain hasn’t calmed down very much; I shiver slightly as I step out. As I turn to close the door, our eyes meet and for a second I see something akin to concern flash across his face.

“Will you be okay?” he asks, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone.

I tense up and for a minute, I’m unable to speak. “Thank you…” I mumble again before looking up and smiling slightly, “...for your concern, but I’m fine, really. Just tired…” 

He nods carefully and lets a tight grin spread across his lips. “Get some rest, Sweetheart. You were great,” he says with a soft purr and holds out a couple wrinkled five dollar bills, “Here. Take this, you know, just in case.”

I hesitate for a moment before taking them, shoving the bills into my pocket while the reflection in the window smiles thankfully. “Come again!” I coo, closing the door and turning towards the towering building. The truck starts moving as I take a few steps into the dry canopy. Before I even realize it, I find myself shivering all over. 

_ ‘Will you be okay….?’  _

What a ridiculous question _.  _ I stop, shoulders hunched over. Ridiculous. “.... Wait!” I turn around, waving frantically for him to stop. I don’t care where he takes me. I’ll sleep in a filthy hotel room, I’ll lie down on the floor of some crack house. I don’t  _ care _ , I just don’t want to be here. I just don’t want to see  _ him _ . I hold my breath when he slows, brake lights on, and start running back out into the rain. Take me away from here. Anywhere but  _ here _ . Please. 

His truck slowly turns on to the main road and disappears into the cold, unfeeling night. 

I come to a halt, watching him disappear, and drop to my knees. I stare. I just stare after him, freezing rain water dripping into my eyes and blinding me. I can feel my heart sinking down to the pit of my stomach. Again. I was too late  _ again _ . I made up my mind too late… 

_ Again _ .

Inhaling deeply, I pull myself up on uneasy legs. I feel light-headed as I move, drifting into the dimly lit building that imprisons me. The door creaks open and the droplets falling from my clothes make soft plopping noises as they hit the tiles. I grab a hold of the railing and begin climbing the red carpet stairs up to the third floor. The lights flicker lazily overhead, casting dim shadows across the floor. The only sound other than my own echoing footsteps bouncing around the empty halls is the distant hum of the air conditioner-which always seems to be broken- and the muffled sounds of the baby in 208, waking up  _ just  _ when his parents have finally laid down for some rest. I open our apartment door slowly, hoping  _ he  _ won’t be awake. 

Of course, he’s lying across the couch with the television switched on to the news, a half-empty bottle cradled in his hand. I try to move quietly, so to avoid disturbing him. However, as soon as I remove my sodden boots, he looks over with cold, contemptuous eyes.

“Tip?” He says candidly, holding out a hand.

I meet his gaze for a fleeting moment before turning away, quietly muttering, “Hello to you too, sir.” I hear the couch cushions creaking under him and his sock clad feet treading over the carpet as I peel my jacket from my body. 

His hot breath tickles the back of my neck as he leans forward to rest his hand against the wall. “Did you get a tip?” he asks slowly as if speaking to a child. He reaches an arm around and roughly grabs my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes.

I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat, and stare at the floor, “No.” I clear my throat and glance back up nervously, “No, _ sir _ .”

I can feel his cold, blue eyes staring straight through me, “I see…” He release me and pulls my coat off the hook, rifling through the pockets, “No tip, you say?” I can feel my lips curl as he pulls the bills out and holds them up to my face. “What’s this then? Savings? Souvenir? Theft?” he demands, words slurred in his drunken state, cornering me against the door. I recoil, holding myself, and bite my lip as he grabs my shoulders. “Don’t you dare lie to me again!” he barks, shaking me and slamming the back of my head against the wall until I pull away.

His anger only increases. “What do you think you’re doing?” he roars, his voice intoxicated with ire. “Can’t I even talk to you anymore?!” His eyes are ice, but they glow with a fury that burns through me like hellfire. I am shoved again, backed into the wall like a trapped animal. His rough, calloused hands wrap around my neck and, in a single horrifying instant, he tightens his grip.

I can’t help gasping, trying to choke in air, as my hands reflexively move to pry him away. I croak weakly, hoping he’ll stop, but he only adds more pressure to my neck. The world around me starts to go numb, the whole thing making me dizzy as black spots begin to stain my vision. My limbs feel so very heavy. My lungs begin screaming for the oxygen that his cruel hands deny. His hands… Everything else is fading away, but his hands are still very much there. They aren’t gentle like the client’s: his hands were so large and comforting.  _ His _ are only violent. The warmth emanating from his palms isn’t welcoming, but instead so noxious I could almost vomit. I let out a faint, gurgled plea. As I feel my legs give out and my hands start to go limp, I begin to wonder if he plans to kill me. Where will he bury the body? Would he give me a proper burial or dispose of me on the black market? Selling me off to be defiled and torn apart by strangers all over the world? The latter sounds like him. 

My wondering is cut short as he releases hold of my throat and drops me.

I fall to my knees, sputtering and gasping for air; my eyes burn as I wipe hot tears from my face. My body is shaking all over and I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold myself up on such unsteady arms.

He leans back down and grabs a fistful of my hair, pressing his cracked lips against my ear as he hisses, “You won’t dare to ever fucking lie to me again! You  _ belong _ to me, you hear,  _ bitch _ ?” He spits out the last word like it’s a vile taste on his tongue and lets go of my hair.

I blanch, cradling my head in my hands and sink back down to the floor. “Yes. I’m sorry,” I whisper weakly. My head pounds unrelentingly and my ears are ringing. I feel like I’m floating, dizzy and unstable, only slightly above myself. I curl up with my hands clamped over my ears and my brow against the damp, stained carpet, trying to breathe deeply. 

_ Get back up. _

I curl up tighter around myself. 

_ Calm down. _

Every tiny inhale stings like a blade digging into my throat.

_ Stop it. _

I swallow, fresh tears welling up in my eyes.

_ Just hold it a little longer. _

I feel a wet warmth sliding down my face, and I try to bite back a whimper.

_ Just a little longer… _

My calm expression slips and the facade falls away. I begin crying, fingers clawing at any loose clothes or hair within their grasp. I shake all over, the sorrow and regret completely consuming my frail body. The sobs caught in my throat only make it feel more raw, but I can’t stop the flow of tears. I hate crying, it doesn’t make my head feel any better and I can barely breathe. I almost feel like I’ll die, vomit, and pass out all at the same time. It’s so painful. I’m aware of the fact that I’m breaking down again… and know that one day I may shatter for good. My voice cracks as I manage to barely murmur, “I want to go home…”

He presses his foot, hot and sweaty, against the crown of my head and pushes my face into the floor. “You pathetic child…” he hisses, leaning over me, “You don’t have anywhere else to run…” He sneers, hooking his toe under my chin, and turns my wet face up to meet his gaze. He bends down and entangles his violent hands in my knotted mess of hair. “You belong to  _ me _ and I won’t let you go until you pay back  _ every single cent _ you owe me,” he mutters slowly, a condescending tone to his voice, “and don’t think I’m not keeping track of  _ every  _ time you lie or try to cheat me, bitch, because you can bet your  _ worthless _ , whore ass that I’m just adding more on top of your debt.” Watching the colour drain from my face as my lips fail to produce any sort of intelligible reply seems to only spark some kind of sick, twisted pleasure behind his eyes. 

He chuckles, a cruel smirk lingering on his lips, and gives my hair a sharp tug. “Get on your knees and apologize  _ sincerely _ for misbehaving,” he says, without a shred of sympathy in his voice. He doesn’t stop pulling my hair until I drag myself up on unsteady knees. My apologies seem to fall on deaf ears as he responds by undoing his pants and pressing himself against my face.

I bite back the urge to pull away and hesitantly comply. It’s much easier to silently submit to his desires than to try to reject him. If it didn’t hurt so much to talk I might have refused and hid myself away in the closet, but I feel so exhausted and sore that I don’t bother fighting back. It’ll be over soon.  _ Please, _ say it’ll be over soon. 

I almost gag when he pulls me close and my mouth fills with a bitter, disgusting taste. I cringe and swallow, putting my hand to my mouth to dissuade the foul substance from coming back up. 

I stand without a word, leaning against the wall for support as the world around me spins in and out of focus. I watch him mutter something incoherent and turn around, returning to his place on the couch as if nothing had happened. I inch my way into the kitchen, taking unsteady steps. The open fridge reveals copious amounts of alcohol barely hidden at the back. I pull out a few bottles of the same cheap beer he’d gotten plastered off of and almost break my neck running to my room.

I trip over something as I come through the door and crash down, hard, on the floorboards. My head throbs as I lie there, stunned for what feels like hours before I drag myself up onto the bed. That’s when I notice the blood oozing from my hand and glass cutting into my flesh: one of the bottles lies in smashed pieces on the ground, letting the smell of beer soak into the air. I let out a soft, distressed moan and hold my injured hand to my chest. I hate this so much. I reach for the bottles sitting on my nightstand and pour a myriad of painkillers and sleeping pills into my bloodied hand. I swallow them, washing the drugs down with half a bottle of liquor. The bitter taste of medication and seed still permeates my mouth. 

_ I wish I could just disappear.  _

The thought seems so enticing. No more pain, no more worries, no more money, no more sex. Just silence. Silence and nothingness. What a welcome change that would be. What’s a few moments of anguish compared to an eternity of freedom? It would be so easy… the door to the roof is never locked anyway… 

But I’m a coward. I curl up tight, pull the sheets over my head and sit in silence. I don’t want to die.

Hesitantly emerging from under the blankets, I lay my head against the pillow and rub my temples. I’m beginning to regret the frenzied combination of pills and alcohol: it’s making me feel sick. I don’t bother trying to get back up, I’m too tired to move. I find myself staring into the broken mirror on the wall. I look like a mess. Dark purple and green bruises forming on my neck, tangled hair, pallid skin covered in blemishes, vacant, bloodshot eyes; it would be a wonder if anyone calls me ‘beautiful’ any time soon. I close my eyes. I’m disgusting. Broken inside and out. Reduced to a cheap, disposable whore. Nobody cares about people like me. 

That doesn’t matter, though. It’s a fucked up world full of fucked up people who’re all willing to stab each other in the back to survive. Humans really are such messed up, selfish creatures. As I am now, all I can do is service the shameless and immoral until the day I break and get tossed aside like an old toy. 

I roll onto my stomach, holding myself tight, as the room around me spins out of focus. It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow will come along anyway and I’ll just deal with it. After all, I’m durable.


End file.
